I lean forward. “Please, elder, tell me more.”
The scent of blue roses fills my snout, and I immediately turn toward its source, my mate in her full glory. My tail sways on its own, left and right, unable to be contained. They have changedher attire. She is wrapped in pale, flowing fabric, so light it clings to her like mist at dawn. The long sleeves drape past her hands, making her look too delicate for war, too fragile for this world.
But I know better.
White, blue, and gold adorn her. On her head sits a pointed crown-like headpiece, its colors matching her dress. Her dark hair is woven into two long braids, falling down her back as she moves toward me. I rise to my paws.
“My, my! Dear, you are a delight!” Elder Lyuba exclaims, rushing Noël toward us.
“Delight,” I echo, because I have forgotten every other word in existence. I stride forward and sweep her into my arms.
She laughs, loud and carefree. My snout twitches. Mead.
Did she drink it?
The females behind her burst into laughter, lifting the hems of their dresses in their fists as they rush forward.
“Theron.” Noël giggles, and for the first time, I do not recognize my mate. “I”—she laughs, leaning into me—“must eat to sober up a bit. It’s no good to drink on an empty stomach.”
I turn on my heel, and my mate lets out a ‘woo’ noise as I move.
Mead is very dangerous.
“Elder Lyuba, could you please help me feed her?” I ask, settling onto the log with Noël perched on my thigh.
“We were just discussing you two!” The elder chuckles.
“You are popular.” My mate giggles.
I huff, glancing down at her. She is a powerful leader. A warrior. The one chosen by the goddesses.
And yet, at this moment, she is a drunken dove, giggling in my lap. What have they done to her?
I cup her face, and she looks at me with a wide, dazed smile. My sweet dove. I cradle her against me as Elder Lyuba brings more meat. As I begin to feed my mate, the other females forma circle around the fire—elders and youths alike—each grabbing the back of the other’s dress as they begin to move. Tradition.
It’s beautiful. It makes me feel at home. Noël opens her mouth, waiting for another piece of meat, and I give it to her. Then, the first voice rises, melodic, timeless.
Daughter, daughter, hear my song,
The night is deep, the road is long.
The fire burns, the bread will rise,
A mother’s love never dies.
One voice becomes many.
The circle moves slowly, in sync. Noël chews, eyes fixed on them.
When the wind calls, whisper low,
The trees will teach you where to go.
Moonlight fades but stars remain,
The river sings your name.
My fur bristles. This is nature. Feminine power, feminine voices. The sound vibrates in my bones. More females step forward, some carrying drums like the ones in Ávera. Elder Aïna once told me, the drums our warriors play today came from the human females who once fled to our lands.
